Warhammer 40000 : Short Stories
by Zahariel
Summary: This is a collection of short stories written in the Warhammer 40000 universe, based on requests from my readers. Each story is only one chapter long, and will go from 2000 to 10000 words depending on the format requested, or by my inspiration if none is given. If you enjoyed it and want to see something specific given form, tell me !
1. Lies and Deceit

AN : Well, here it is. The first short story of what I hope will be a long serie, though I will still give priority to my two main fics, Warband of the Forsaken Sons and the Roboutian Heresy. This is more of a ... side project, for detente and practice.

This story was based on reviewer Guilliman's request, for 'A group of guardsmen holding their position against the Alpha Legion'.

If you like it, see any problem with it, or have an idea for another short story, review ! (or, in the latter case, PM me).

I do not own the Warhammer 40000 universe or any of its characters. They belong to Games Workshop.

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><p>The blood of heroes and martyrs was flowing on the paved streets of Luteria, and no one would mourn them or sing prayers for them.<p>

That, most of all, hurt Saul to his core. He had known he would die in service of the Emperor when he had been formally induced into the Imperial Guard twenty years ago. The men of the 247th Cadian regiment were doomed men, but their sacrifice would help keep the Imperium alive and be remembered for eternity. Or at least, that was how it should be, but the war on Damorec had not followed any rule so far. And since the heretics were winning, there was little hope that would change.

They had come to Damorec to answer the call for help of the governor. Fairly standard, if depressing, situation : the governor's own incompetence had ruined the local economy, driving the people to rebellion and then to heresy. After shooting the blasted fool, the Colonel had begun the slow process of purging the planet from the taint, one city at a time. Classic, grinding warfare, the kind of battles the Imperial Guard had been made for. Then the Traitor Marines came.

They had probably been on the planet from the beginning, cultivating dissent and blasphemy in the shadows. Information about them was scarce : they seemed to be everywhere, striking at every weak point, every target. Estimates of the Traitor Astartes' numbers went from a handful to the equivalent of an entire Chapter. When before the 247th had been slowly but steadily pushing the rebels back, a few days after the first Chaos Marine's sighting they were hard-pressed to hold the capital.

The soldiers had called for help, of course. The Colonel had put his pride aside and sent an astropathic message to whomever could hear the moment he had had confirmation of the Marines' presence. He had described the traitors' tactics and appearance in great detail, joining several picts of the sea-green, scaled armor of the Chaos Marines. The mere memory of what had happened then made Saul want to scream in anger. A single message, bearing the seal of the Holy Inquisition, sent by Lord Inquistor Azarkan Lyrov of the Ordo Malleus. It had been quite long and flowery, full of prayers and reminders of the Imperial Guard's duties. It was also a death sentence.

No help was in route. In truth, none would ever come. Damorec was considered lost, a new Perditia world in the galactic map, where no Imperial ship would ever sail. If the ship of the regiment, the _Tear of Lament_, was ever seen again in Imperial space, she would be destroyed without hesitation nor warning. The 274th was ordered to die against the heretics, all records of the regiment erased. This was what the Emperor demanded of them, Azarkan's message claimed. Knowledge of the Traitor Marines, who belonged to some group the Inquisition had called the Alpha Legion, was a poison to the soul. Their lies spread like a cancer through the ranks of those who fought against them, and to gather more forces would only give them more opportunities. Better for the Guards to die than to risk whatever scheme the fiends had planned to come to fruition.

Upon receiving this message, the Colonel had done his duty. He had ordered the Warp engines of the _Tear _overloaded, destroying the only way of the 247th to escape. Then, as the ship slowly drifted into the system's sun, he had shot himself. Now, forty-seven days after the death of the _Tear of Lament_, the time of the last stand had come.

Of an entire regiment and its support personnel, only two hundred souls remained. In the heart of the ruined palace of the governor, these dirty, hungry and betrayed men and women were preparing to die in vain. A third of them should have been in a medic bay, not clutching las-guns with almost empty power charges. But they would die with a weapon in their hands, Saul had decided. Even the thrice-cursed Inquisition could not take that last dignity from them. Saul had been a commissar before they had been abandoned. Though rank held no meaning now, in the light of the Inquisition's edict and the suicide of the Colonel, he had become de facto leader of the remaining Guardsmen.

'We will die for the Emperor,' he had told them amidst the ruins of Luteria, when the troops of the Alpha Legion and their minions had appeared on the horizon. 'And we will do it cursing the traitors with our last breath. And if a few of you curse Azarkan as well … I am quite sure He will forgive you.'

They had laughed at that – the first time Saul's words had ever made someone laugh, and the last time any of them had laughed. It had been more out of raw despair than any amusement, but that was still more than Saul had expected. Strangely, standing in the front of certain death after being abandoned by his masters, Saul was closer to the soldiers of the 247th than he had ever been in his life.

* * *

><p>The chanting started again, and the Guardsmen raised their weapons toward the chokepoints they had established. For some stupid reason, the audience room of the palace could be reached by three great passages whose gates had been knocked down long ago. With suppressing squads and flying teams, Saul had been able to force the enemy to spend thousands of lives in the two weeks they had spent trapped here.<p>

They came in droves, forcing their way up the corpses of their predecessors, just as they had each time the cursed chanting had started. Human cultists, driven insane by their blasphemous beliefs, charged the entranched troopers wielding nothing more than makeshift weapons and chanting the mad song of Chaos with dry lips and sore throats.

Dozens of them died in the first moments of their charge, but every death fulfilled its purpose : forcing the loyalists to expense their precious ammunition. Saul stood at the central gate, his chainsword in hand, ten of the most robust survivors next to him. Together they beat to death the few heretics who made it pass the laser fire, breaking their bones with whatever bludgeoning instrument they had picked up. The smell of death was almost enough to make the troopers pass out. The cultists rank of rot and corruption, and their flesh was ripe with hideous mutations that reflected their twisted souls.

Saul fought, and killed and killed, letting rightful anger fuel his tired body. He roared his hate at the traitors before starting to recite one of the Litanies of Unforgiveness, spending his precious breath so that his comrades would hold their ground.

'The heretics shall burn in the fire of His wrath !'

He punched a cultist in the face, before seizing his left hand and impaling his foe on his own weapon – a short blade that looked like it had once been a kitchen knife.

'The unclean shall be purged in the blaze of His fury !'

Saul pushed his chainsword through the guts of a rabid female wearing tattered robes, and activated the weapon for a fraction of second, burning a little more of its promethium's reserves. The heretic burst apart in a shower of gore and rancid flesh, giving even his crazed fellows pause.

'And the traitors,' finished Saul with a feral smile, 'shall die at the point of His sword !'

* * *

><p>They lost twelve more men during that assault. Torn apart by one of the cultists who had made it past the chokepoints or blasted into oblivion by a suicide bomber, none of them had died in silence. Saul was giving a small service over their bodies – for those of them whose remains could still be gathered – when the voice boomed across the room. It came from the outside, screamed across the entire ruined city by overpowered vox-speakers. The voice of a demigod sounded, and Saul had to steady himself to not fall under the sheer volume of the terrible voice. Around him, he saw several of his men clutching their heads, blood trickling from their ears.<p>

_'Soldiers of the Imperial Guard,'_ said the voice. _'You have been betrayed. Your masters have abandoned you, just like they had abandoned the people of this world. You have been sacrificed in the name of ignorance.'_

_'We give you one last chance to live. Throw down your weapons, and come out of your hole. Do this, and you will be spared. Refuse, and it is I and my brothers who shall kill you. We grant you one hour to make your decision. Choose well, or face the might of Alpharius and his sons.'_

The voice went silent. Saul looked around him, seeing dozens of eyes looking at him. He lifted his chainsword, and pointed it toward the middle gate.

'If anyone dares to take a step in or out of this room,' said the former commissar, 'I will kill them myself. We hold our ground, sons and daughters of Cadia. We hold our damned ground, and we will die for the Emperor rather than bow to these Warp-cursed traitors !'

The nodded grimly. No cheer. No roar of defiance. They would make their point to the heretics with deeds, not words.

* * *

><p>The Alpha Legion charged one hour later. The first Guard to die passed to the other side of the veil a few seconds before the first shot was fired from the loyalist lines. His skull exploded under the impact of a long-range bolter rifle – a killing shot from a Legionary sniper hidden behind the rebels' barricades at the three corridors' ends. Another three died when a plasma cannon tore a path open through the pile of corpses in the left gallery, the heat melting their eyes in their sockets. Four Traitor Marines charged on each passage, moving faster than anything wearing that kind of armor ought to be capable of.<p>

The Guardsmen opened fire together, their weapons at full power, spending their last ammunition in the hope of bringing down at least one of the Chaos Marines. The traitors were shooting back, their precision undiminished by their charge. Their warped, twisted bolters spat death at the servants of the Throne, tearing through flesh and flak armor with equal ease.

One of the Traitor Marines went down, his brain burst by a lucky shot that had pierced through his already cracked eye-lense. Another crashed on the ground when one of Saul's last bolts shattered his right knee. He kept advancing, crawling forward while providing covering fire for his brothers. That was all the damage the loyalists made before the Legionaries reached them, and the butchery began.

In the entire galaxy, there is no kind of living being more lethal than the Space Marines. Individuals may surpass them : Eldar blademasters, Ork Warbosses, Tyrannid hive-lords, even exceptional humans – they can defeat a grandchild of the Emperor in battle. But as a species unto their own, the Astartes are without equal. They are made for war the same way other races are made to survive : the entirety of their being is forged to that purpose.

Saul had known that. He had studied the Space Marines, to be ready if he ever fought at their side or if – or rather, given Cadia's location, _when –_ he had to face the Traitor Legions himself. But he had never seen what a Chaos Marine was truly capable of before that day, when he clashed blades with a warrior of the Alpha Legion.

As a prospect commissar of a Cadian regiment, Saul had been trained by the best swordsmen the Schola could find. He had fought alongside the 247th on a dozen worlds, and dueled countless enemies during that time. But against an Astartes, all that training and experience amounted to precisely nothing.

The first blow crashed his chainsword in two. The second cut off his left hand before he could aim his bolt pistol with it. With nothing remaining but the hate in his heart, Saul hurled himself at the inhuman warrior. In the fraction of second before the backhanded blow of the giant hit him, the commissar had a glimpse of the monster. His armor was covered in green scales except for a few spots where a grey skin was exposed. His helmet was a terrifying sight, modified or mutated in the form of a daemon's open jaw, and its eye-lenses shone with a sickening yellow light. His right hand held a power sword whose blade was etched with blasphemous runes, and the bolter in his left had a cannon reforged into a snake spitting its venom. Saul saw all of this in the time it took the hand holding the gun to reach his torso.

He crashed on the ground, feeling bones breaking all across his body. His head swam and his vision blurred in pain. He thought he could hear his name being shouted, but all he could focus on were the heavy footsteps drawing ever closer to him. It felt as if time was slowing down, each fall of ceramite-clad boot a bell ringing to herald his doom.

When the giant finally entered his field of vision again, Saul managed to speak. He uttered a single word, the same question billions had had on their lips at the moment of their death in the war that had maimed a god and destroyed his dream ten thousand years ago.

'Why ?'

For a moment, the giant paused. As if underwater, Saul heard the screams of his comrades as they died at the traitors' hands. He kept his gaze focused on the Chaos Marine towering above him, desperately fighting off the darkness that threatened to engulf him, ignoring the pain of his broken body and the weakness caused by the blood leaking from his left arm. He had to know the answer. He had to know …

_'For the Emperor.'_

* * *

><p>He woke up in a bed, his many wounds bandaged, his broken bones set back and fixed in a dozen casts. Intravenous feeds were connected to his right arm, and a stump of artificial flesh ended his left wrist. The air smelled of old blood and chemicals – the smell of an hospital used to heal those wounded in war. All he could see was the ceiling of the room – the metal was clean and untouched by rust – and all he could hear was the myriad noises that were typical of life aboard a ship …<p>

A ship. Blood of the Emperor, what was he doing on a ship ?! He should be dead ! Even if he had somehow survived the attack, there was no way any ship would have braved the Inquisition's will ! What was going on ? _Where was he ?!_

He tried to speak, to move, but despite the adrenaline flowing through him now as panic began to claim him, he was unable to make his muscles obey him. Something must have been monitoring his vitals, however, for an alarm chime began to rise from one of the machines he was connected to. He heard quick footsteps, and a man wearing the uniform of a medic of the Guard appeared to his right. Saul's eardrums had been healed from the damage dealt to them by the Alpha Legion's message, for he understood what the man said perfectly :

'Easy there, commissar. You are safe. Now that you are awake and there is no risk of you harming yourself by trashing in your sleep, I am going to lower the dosage of muscle inhibitors you have been injected with.'

The man quickly did something on the machine before turning back to Saul.

'Now, this will take some time for you to start feeling the effects, so in the meantime, I will answer the questions you are most probably asking yourself. You are aboard the _Claws of Duty_, with the 72th Narinite regiment. We received your call for help, though it was horribly garbled, and came to your aid. By the time we arrived, though, there wasn't a single signal coming from Damorec except from the balise of distress that led us to you in the Gorvernor's palace, surrounded by heretics' corpses. We found you and nineteen other survivors, unconscious and in grave danger to succumb to your wounds. We have already lost five of you, and you are the first one to awaken. It is … twenty-four days since we left Damorec behind to report to the command of the Sector about this.'

Saul managed to force his lips to move, his vocal cords to perform their function :

'But … the Inquisition's … message …. No help was coming … Perditia …'

The medic raised an eyebrow.

'Our astropathic channels with the rest of the Imperium have been quite clear recently, commissar. When we received your call for help, we relayed it to the rest of the Imperium, but we have heard no word of the Holy Ordos in a long time, my it last even longer yet.'

'No … no … the Alpha Legion … they said we had been abandonned … sacrificed … left to die and be forgotten …'

Compassion appeared on the medic's face as he recognised what he thought to be the signs of battle trauma and exposure to things that no man of faith should ever been made to see.

'I am afraid, my friend, that you have been deceived by some traitor's ruse. But don't worry. You are alive, and Damorec is no longer in … well, in anyone's hands, frankly. Whatever ploy they thought to use to break your will, it didn't work. Tell me, what is this « Alpha Legion » you spoke of ? ….'


	2. Redemption

AN : and here is another short story. The idea for it came from Guilliman's review of the last chapter : "A heretic Space Marine from the Thousand Sons legion seeking redemption". And yes, I am aware that that makes it two stories in a row he inspired. That wasn't even voluntary on my part, I swear I noticed it just as I put this online.

Concerning Bibotot's questions in his review, all I can say is the following : the uncertainty is part of the story. Even _I _do not know what the hell the Alpha Legion was up to.

So, here is another short story. If you like it, please review. If you have an idea for another one, please review too, or send me a message.

I do not own the Warhammer 40000 universe nor any of its characters. They belong to Games Workshop.

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><p>The touch of the wind on my face brings me the scent of dust.<p>

I stand alone, amidst the shining towers and lore-filled libraries of Tizca as it was. This is the City of Light, home to millions of scholars and students of the universe's many mysteries, yet there is not a single soul in sight. Instead, shades wander the streets, ghosts of the past replicating the moves that real serfs and citizens accomplished in an era now long gone.

There is no one but me here, for Tizca is dead. It burned in the fires unleashed by the Wolves, who believed us betrayers before Fate's conspiracy made that accusation a reality. This city is but a memory, dragged from my mind and given form by manipulating my own brain into believing it is real. I don't know why I do this, why I torture myself with the image of what has been lost over and over again. I suspect I wouldn't like the answer. But I find serenity here, and renewal of purpose.

I hear the summon from my master_._ It is a screeching, insistent sound at the edge of my perception, dragging my attention away from my longing memories and back into the material world. I open my eyes and find myself alone, sitting in my cell aboard the _Blade of Nightmare._ It is spartan as most such places tend to be, with a single block of metal where I can rest my body when the need for sleep is too strong to ignore as the only furniture. Trophies from my past battles hang on the walls : the skinned fur of a Fenrisian wolf, taken while my homeworld burned around me the broken power blade of an Imperial Fist Librarian, picked up from his corpse during the Siege of Terra and the empty lasrifle of a Guardsman who almost killed me with it, amongst others.

I reach to the vox in my helm, and immediately, the words come :

_'Come here, sorcerer. I need you. The prisoner has broken.'_

* * *

><p>The prisoner is barely alive when I reach the torture chamber. Most of his skin has been flayed, including that of his face, revealing the powerful Astartes muscles beneath. Blood drips from a few cuts his Larraman cells are unable to close, overwhelmed as they are by the hundreds of wounds covering the body of the tortured warrior. Patches of skin are already growing back on his naked frame, but the process is slow and erratic. His body is breaking down, his considerable vitality finally running dry under the strain of his captor's attention.<p>

'Are you admiring my work, sorcerer ?' asks the voice of my lord and master.

Without his helmet on, his voice is sickeningly sweet. It is the voice of an artist, a lover. Not the voice of a monster like Kraëlion. the Touched and those under his command. I do not know what aspect of his soul caused the Eye to alter his vocal cords this way, and as for many other things in our purgatory, I am glad for that ignorance. Contrary to what my Legion once believed, some secrets – and many truths – are best left unknown.

I turn to Kraëlion before answering his question. Like most of his warriors, the lord of the _Strillika Fortarya –_ the Endless Nightmare, in the language of his murdered homeworld – wears the colors of the Eighth Legion. Like many members of the Nine Legions, he can no longer remove his armor – it has been bound to his flesh by the will of the Pantheon. The ceramite of it is covered in tiny, blood-red runes of Nostraman script depicting the many deeds of the being wearing the armor. Once, Kraëlion engraved these runes himself now, he dictates to armoury slaves as they carve his words onto the metal.

When I look at his face, I do not see the handsome appearance his patron had blessed him with. I see only two orbs of pure blackness amidst a mess of rewired nerves and mutated grey matter. My training as one of the Pavoni, the biomancers of the Fifteenth Legion, is what makes me so valuable to my warlord. It is also what makes me see him – and every other warrior aboard the _Blade of Nightmare –_ as the abomination he really is. I look upon a perfect face and see only the corruption of the Youngest God.

And they say the Ruinous Powers have no sense of humor.

'Yes,' I finally answer. Kraëlion nods, and I can see his aura flicker with pride, then annoyance, then impatience.

'Now, get me what I want from him, sorcerer.'

I bow slightly, and turn back to the prisoner. This time I reach out with my sixth sense, delving into his ravaged biology to force out the answers we need. His mind is a broken, ruined mess. The pain has destroyed him, but hasn't killed him yet. His soul, once as bright and potent as that of any Astartes, is now reduced to quickly cooling embers, too weak to manifest even the weakling spirits such agony as he was feeling should bring into existence, this deep in the Eye of Terror.

When we captured this warrior, on a battlefield of living bone and boiling skies, he screamed and fought back, cursing the comrades who had left behind for their cowardice and us for … many things. Now he is little more than an empty shell, his psyche broken to pieces by the Night Lord standing nearby. His memories, once blocked by an almost impassable wall of fury and hatred, are laid bare before me.

His name is Irion Dolen, and he was born on Cthonia. Like a rapidly diminishing portion of the Legionaries in the Eye, he is a Son of Horus. That is the reason he is here now, why Kraëlion wants me to ransack his brain. Some hatred are stronger than others, even here in hell.

I do not know when the hunt for the blood of the Sixteenth began. Its roots are in the Siege, of course. The Sons of Horus cost us the war, claim many amongst the Nine Legions. Their shameful run from Terra after the death of their Primarch had left the others without support, and forced to retreat under the fire of the loyalists. Those using that rhetoric often conveniently forget that the First and Sixth Legions were almost on us, and the Horus' duel with the Emperor was the last chance to salvage a battle that had gone to hell the moment the first of us had landed on Terra.

But it doesn't matter to me. I have my own reasons to wish the extinction of the Sixteenth Legion, for a sin far prior to any perceived failure on the Throneworld. After all, they are to blame for the treachery that destroyed Prospero and cast us out of the Imperium.

For almost ten minutes, I search into the prisoner's head. I push on his dying brain to bring back to the fore his memories, before quickly looking through their contents and then discarding them. I have no interest in his childhood, nor in his fond remembrance of his father's glory. Some pieces of information about the Eye's ever-evolving balance of power I commit to my own memory for later use.

Then, at last, I find what Kraëlion wants. I release my hold on Irion, and his body goes limp, released at last from the torture of his prolonged existence.

'Did you find it, Raherka ?' asks the warlord, using the name my parents gave me at birth and that I kept when induced into the Thousand Sons.

'Yes, my lord,' I answer. 'I know where the rest of them fled.'

* * *

><p>The <em>Blade of Nightmare<em> roars as she emerges from an ocean of burning daemons and into the calmer tides where our prey has made its lair. It is well hidden, I have to give the Sons of Horus that much. A small island of stability amidst one of the Eye's most dangerous regions, it would have been impossible to find had I not plucked its location from Irion's mind. Even then, the journey was arduous, for the prisoner was no psyker. He knew little of the path – glimpses from his ship's occulus into the madness beyond, and the whispers of the slaves who dreamed of what surrounded the metal world they lived in. But for me, it was enough. Enough to guide our Navigator across the storm, seeking one point of remembrance after the other, until we reached this haven. Without such guidance, I suspect the tall of how our prey found it in the first place to be a saga of its own.

The hunger of the ship's machine-spirit is matched by that of her crew. We have sailed for weeks, and the Strillika Fortarya crave blood. Standing on the bridge, next to Kraëlion's command throne, I can see our target appear on the occulus, and hold back a sigh of relief when the vessel is confirmed to be the _Lupercal's Honor_. There is no telling what my lord's reaction would have been had I been mistaken.

The _Lupercal's Honor _is a wounded creature. She has come back here to lick her scars and allow her crew to repair the rents in her steel. Many of those wounds were taken when the Sons of Hours fled from us. Apart from those, the ship also bears the marks of her sojourn within the Great Eye. Vast tendrils of woven flesh and metal are growing from her prow, slowly moving in response to the currents of the Warp. These tentacles are dangerous if you get too close – the _Blade _still bears the scars of when we last faced the Sixteenth Legion warband.

While Kraëlion orders us to get closer and tells the rest of his warriors to prepare for boarding action, I open my mind and reach out to the souls aboard the _Lupercal's Honor. _I ignore the pained wails of her machine-spirit and focuses on the living within. Like any other battle-barge of the Legions, the Sons of Horus' vessel is home to tens of thousands of crew. I swim through their minds, brushing against their thoughts as I do so. I feel fear coming from them, much fear. They know we are here – I can hear the alarms rising across the ship through their ears – and they know who we are.

Other, stronger minds remain untouched by fear. These are the souls of Legionaries, preparing for battle with a mix of bitter anger and desperation. They know we will want to take their ship as undamaged as possible, to salvage it for our own use. It is the way of all warbands within the Eye, and they intend to make us pay for it in blood. One of them stands on the bridge, his soulfire brighter, commanding his men and inspiring them to fight to the last. I can admire such determination, foolish as it is and fruitless as it will prove in the end.

Then I see one last soul, shining like a beacon through the Warp and bearing the mark of the Changer of Ways. Dozens of Neverborn circle around it, drawn to its light but not daring to get close to it lest they get burned. It senses my observation and flares in response, and I retreat to my body before I am dragged in a battle of wills. My eyes open back to the _Blade of Nightmare's _bridge, and find Kraëlion looking at me, expectation radiating from his aura. Something in my posture indicates him that I have returned from my scouting, but I answer his question before it can leave his lips.

'I can sense them. They are both here. Torelei is on the bridge of the _Lupercal's Honor._'

'And where is your brother, sorcerer ?'

The suspicion in his voice makes my skin crawl. Does he believe me to be about to turn sides ? No, that's not it. His true motive is well concealed for a non-psyker, but I can still see it clearly. He simply enjoys tormenting me by remembering me of what I will have to do. If only he knew …

'Leave Senusret to me,' I answer him drily.

* * *

><p>Boarding actions are some of the most dangerous missions Astartes can undertake. Cut off from reinforcements and resupply, trapped in the very middle of their enemy with no easy way to retreat, even Legionaries can sustain grievous losses. And when the target ship is defended by other Space Marines, it is even worse. Kraëlion knows this, as does his rival Captain Torelei, formerly of the 217th Battle Company of the Sons of Horus. But there are ways to counter this disadvantage.<p>

Boarding a ship defended by fifty-seven Astartes with a force of over three hundred Legionaries is one of them. In a fight between Space Marines, mortals rarely amount to much, and the crew of the _Lupercal's Honor _is not used to fighting. The Sons of Horus lost what little support troops they had the last time we crossed paths, as was inevitable. The Strillika Fortarya is a far more successful warband than Torelei's broken company. The Night Lords Kraëlion brought with him in the Eye have attracted many errant groups of Emperor's Children over the years, as well as the occasional lone wanderer such as myself. While I, unlike my lord and most of the warband, do not follow the ways of the Dark Prince, I mus admit his patron has truly blessed him in return for his devotion.

Faith in one of the Four Gods is rare amongst the Eighth Legion. Their Primarch never joined any of them, and most of his sons strive to follow his exemple. But others, like Kraëlion and his men, believe this to be another failure from a demigod who hated all those carrying his gene-seed. They have embraced the teachings of the Youngest God, and allowed the touch of Slaanesh to reshape their flesh and souls into creatures far more adapted to life in the Eye than they would have been otherwise.

It is easy to hate them, to despise their corruption. To look upon them and see only the ruin of their potential, the forsaking of their glory and the willing fall into Hell. I know this is how many in the Imperium – many in the Nine Legions still – would see them. But I cannot judge them for it, for I am the same. I, too, am marked by one of the Four. The only difference is that I didn't even get a choice.

I tear my way through the ship, escorted by six warriors of the Third Legion. They wear armor of purple and black decorated with the flayed faces of their victims. Their weapons are strange, unholy unions of a madman's genius and the power of the Warp which send shrieking soundwaves that tear apart flesh and ceramite alike. There is little for me to do, and I let them enjoy the merciless slaughter of defenceless crew. My part in this will come later. For now, I just have to guide them across the labyrinth of corridors toward our prey. My senses are open, seeking the shining soul I am to defeat.

As we pass through an engine room, I catch my reflection on one of the cleanest metal surfaces. Unlike my allies, my armor is of cobalt and bronze, with the heraldy of my Legion still emblazoned on the shoulder paldron. My helm is a reflection of the ancient burial masks of my people's kings in bygone ages, though the golden surface of it is molded not into the peaceful face of a ruler having finally found rest, but into the cold aspect of a judge watching all around him through red eye-lenses.

The blade in my hands does not reflect in the metal. It doesn't belong to reality, after all. To the human eye, it looks like a khopesh blade such as my Legion has used since long before the Burning of Prospero. To those who are gifted, however, the true nature of the weapon is revealed : a daemon, once my tutelary spirit, now bound in the blade I used to kill a son of Russ I had called brother. The weapon's very nature is imbued in treachery and betrayal, and to feel its touch is to know damnation.

We keep going, running in the steady, unyielding pace of Legionaries until we find what we came here for. The first signs that we are near are subtle : a growing pressure in the ether, the almost undetectable scent of ozone, the soft whispers of anguished Neverborn. Only to me are they obvious. Those we find later are more obvious.

Seven Astartes wearing the colors of the Eighth Legion lay dead across the dark room, their bodies torn apart limbs from limbs. Something powerful did this, but there are many creatures in the Eye matching that description. Still, the others easily divine that this is proof our quarry is close. I lift my left hand, gesturing for them to pause. Someone is coming from the other side of the room, emerging from the shadows to face me and my escort in the pale light cast by the few lumi-globes that still shine.

'Brother,' I greet him.

'Raherka,' he answers. His voice is not filled with hatred, nor with contempt. Instead, it merely holds … fatigue. He is tired. So very, very tired. Not physically or psychically – Senusret is powerful enough that killing the Night Lords didn't weaken him much. But, like so many of my Legion, he is tired of life.

He and I are very similar, like reflections cast from opposite sides of a subtly altered mirror. His armor wears the Eye of Horus on its breastplate, and he carries a staff of black crystal rather than a blade, but except for these details, we must appear identical to the outside eye. Two members of the Thousand Sons, having left the new homeworld of our Legion to wander the Eye of Terror, selling our services to the myriad warbands within. Two more sorcerers in Hell.

The Emperor's Children stay clear of us. They do not want to be drawn in what is sure to follow. Battles between psykers can easily get messy. I do not blame them for that. Their task is to protect me from more mundane dangers and see me to my own enemy.

'Tell me, Senusret,' I ask. 'Why did you join this pathetic warband ? The Sons of Horus are as doomed as we are. Their extinction in inevitable. Surely there were others you could have joined ?'

He snorts, and shake his head.

'And who should I have joined, _brother _? The World Eaters, who killed all those of their own kin possessing even a shred of the gift ? The Emperor's Children, who are to blame for both the failure of the Siege and the current anarchy of the Eye with their greed and corruption ? The Night Lords, who look upon us all as weaklings because they managed to hide from the Imperium without having to plunge into Hell ? Or the Iron Warriors, who kill anyone approaching their fortresses on sight ?'

I can feel contempt radiating from him, but even that emotion is weak. His soulfire is strong, but the feelings at the core of his being are being used to fuel it. When he answers, I can feel his confidence, his absolute certainty that his words are right, that he knows the truth. So typical of my kin. Always so sure, so certain. Even when we are shown our mistakes in the most devastatingly clear way possible, we still believe ourselves better than any other.

'The Sons of Horus' star may seem to be falling now, brother. But I have seen their destiny. One day, whether you like it or not, they shall be the rulers of the Eye of Terror. They will rise from the ashes of their past failures, and none will be able to stand in their path. It is written in the skein of fate.'

The other Strillika Fortarya laugh at his words, and even I let out a chuckle. So typical of the Corvidae. To believe they can divine the future from the whispers and shadows of the Sea of Souls, and set their own plans alongside the will of destiny itself.

'Absurd. The Sixteenth Legion is doomed. They will all die before long. Oh, a few may escape the purge – I expect many will, in fact. But the Sons of Horus as whole will cease to exist. That is inevitable. Whatever you saw in the Warp was a lie, brother. And it will cost you much.'

'You always were blind to the currents of Fate, Raherka,' he spits at me, lifting his staff. Power crackles down its length, coursing through the arcane pathways engraved on its surface.

He hurls a bolt of lighting at me, but I am already moving. My body is faster than any unaugmented Legionary may achieve, thanks to the raw power I am forcing through my muscles. I dodge the bolt, and riposte by sending a wave of disrupting energies across Senusret's flesh. He stumbles, struggling to keep his body under his control as contradictory signals reach his brain and nerves.

Before he can, however, I am on him. Usually, battles between sorcerers are contests of will and skill, each one relishing the opportunity to test his power against a worthy opponent. But besting Senusret means nothing to me. My khopesh moves past his hastily raised staff and pierces deep into his chest, impaling both of his hearts and immediately beginning to drain his soulfire from him, leaving him at the mercy of the death that has finally found him.

Senusret looks up at me, and even though his helmet hides his face, I can feel his shock and horror, spilling from his aura just like his body is spilling blood. He does not understand what is happening to him. All Legionaries within the Eye have killed other Legionaries, and many have killed their own brothers, but within the Thousand Sons has always existed an unspoken agreement. We are already on the brink of extinction, and have no peculiar interest in the quarrels of the petty warlords we serve. Most sons of Magnus avoid killing each other if they can, letting their opponent go to find another warband to serve. Our talents are always in demand. But I have broken that silent rule.

'Why ? …' he asks with his dying breath, his soul slipping from his corpse and into the waiting claws of a hundred daemons before I can even consider answering.

I walk away from the corpse of my brother. One more thread, severed. One more scion of Magnus, dead. One more pawn of Tzeentch, swept from the board.

That is why, my dear Senusret. That is why. Our Legion is damned, the toy of a mad god whose designs led us into madness and betrayal. Even now I feel its touch upon my soul, slowly reshaping my thoughts and beliefs. Ahriman's Rubric, despite all its flaws, protected our flesh. But it can do nothing for our soul. That was beyond even the greatest of the Thousand Sons.

I do not know if others can feel it as clearly as I do, or if this is my own, unique curse, placed upon me by the Architect of Fate himself. To know that I am changing, to know that one day nothing will remain of the man I was …

It is hell. But in the killing of my brothers, in the annihilation of my bloodline, in the destruction of the puppets of the Great Mutator, I shall inflict harm upon Chaos itself. In that, I shall repair a fraction of the damage we have caused with our arrogance and our blindness to the truth. In that, I shall once more serve the Imperium, though my deeds shall go unremembered and my name unlauded.

In that, I shall find redemption.


	3. Schism of Mars

AN : hello, dear readers. This story was requested by Altarir. The request was rather short : it consisted of three words, which are this story's title. As I write this, my exams are over, so I will be able to return to the Forsaken Sons and the Roboutian Heresy.

As always, I thank you for your reviews. If you have anything to say about this one, don't hesitate to leave one. If you have any request of your own, please leave one – I am running dangerously low on requests for this series. Enjoy !

I do not own the Warhammer 40000 universe, nor any of its characters. They belong to Games Workshop.

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><p>The forge-world was burning, and machines shaped in the form of the gods of Old Earth stalked the ruins, waging terrible war against each other. The entire planet was screaming as it died. The last breaths of thousands of skitarii merged with the cataclysmic sounds of entire cities being destroyed. Here, on Travos, was a miniature of the galactic conflict that had engulfed all of the Imperium and forced all scions of the Red Planet to choose a side.<p>

Horus Lupercal, Warmaster of the Imperium, had rejected his allegiances and denounced his father as a tyrant and deceiver. To some of the Mechanicus, the First Primarch was a bringer of illumination, freeing them from the constraints the dogmatic Emperor had placed upon them. To others, he was a dangerous lunatic, whose actions threatened to unleash the same horrors that had nearly destroyed Mankind in the Dark Age of Technology. As had ever been the way of humans, these theological and political disagreements could only be solved in blood.

The Legion Damnosus had cast its lot with the Warmaster, and had come to Travos to settle old grudges as well as to take one more world to fuel the rebellion's advance. An entire host of what some already called, with bitter symbolism, the Dark Mechanicum, had come with them.

The renegade forces of Mars weren't alone in this campaign. A Grand Battalion of the Fourth Legion had been dispatched alongside them, and the Iron Warriors had made short work of the loyalists' fortifications. Several hours of relentless orbital bombardment had reduced much of the planet to ruin. But a few key locations had been spared, too valuable to annihilate outright.

These were the fortresses of the Legio Legate, built upon this world a thousand years ago, long before the Emperor's light had reached Travos. Amidst the ruins of a world torn apart by the Age of Strife, the scientists and builders had managed to preserve the STC permitting the construction of the Titans, and created a Legio to protect themselves. For centuries the Titans had protected the world from the xenos that had rampaged across the rest of the sector, none daring to challenge the might of the God-Machines. When the Great Crusade had reached Travos, it had found a forge-world heavily fortified and more than willing to lend its strength to Mankind's greatest endeavour. Integrated to the Collegia Titanica, the Legio Legate had gained many honors during the Great Crusade.

While most of its forces were scattered across the many fronts of the now defunct Great Crusade, a dozen of the loyal God-Machines remained ready to defend their homeworld. And they did not stand unsupported either. Thousands of loyal skitarii had been gathered and hosts of war machines assembled when news of the Heresy had first reached Travos. There had been doubts, at first, and questions. The lords of the planet had not known much of what was happening in the broader galaxy, except than Horus had turned against the Emperor. The reasons for that apparent betrayal were unknown, and the forge-world had hung in the balance for a long time, its leaders unable to decide whom to believe, whom to trust.

Then the Legio Damnasus had come, and the choice had been made for them. The traitors had announced their coming with great waves of scrap-code and Warp-infected transmissions that had killed millions in the first hours of the conflict and revealed to all the horrors to which the Warmaster's cohorts had fallen. There had been no warning, no demand to surrender or to rally to Horus' banner. The Traitor Titans and the Iron Warriors had come for blood, and blood they would have – enough of it, the Archmagos of Travos had vowed in a rare outburst of emotion, to make them drown in it.

The final outcome of such a battle was clear to all involved. The traitors had brought with them overwhelming firepower, and the presence of the Iron Warriors was just the final nail on Travos' coffin. But the loyalists would still make the renegades pay for each of the forges they took. For all their inhumanity, the priests of the Cult of Mars could be just as stubborn and determined as any unaugmented human when faced with defeat.

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><p>The <em>Overlord of Conflict <em>was a Warlord-class engine of the Legio Damnosus. Once, it had answered to the name of _Principle of Law_, but that appellation had been forsaken when the very nature of the Titan had been changed. The revelations of Horus' STCs and the lore of the Seventeenth Legion had been put to use in the days after the Isstvan Massacre, when the entire galaxy had shaken with the news of the Imperium turning on itself. Runes from forgotten languages had been carved on the Warlord's armor and blessed with the sacrifice of the eighty-eight tech-priests who had placed them, drawing the favor of the Invisible Algorithms. Its core reactor had been infused with the fury of one of the Warp's denizens in order to grant the Titan the power its newly altered weaponry required.

Most of all, _Overlord _was no longer bound by the will of the mortals scuttling in its body. Its princeps still lived, and it was the old man's voice that answered to the calls of those the Titan wasn't allowed to destroy, but that was all. Princeps Lotard Alexian was now no more than a jerking puppet of waster flesh and atrophied muscles, hanging in his preservation tank amidst dozens of half-living crewmembers. _Overlord's _spirit had consumed them all, adding their souls to its growing, predatory consciousness. Some of the mortals had welcomed this union, seeing it as the inevitable next step toward their fusion with the Omnissiah. Others had resisted it, fighting until the very end to preserve a shard of individuality. But none had escaped. Only a faint echo of Lotard himself remained, a ghost in the machine that still stirred from time to time or when _Overlord _needed his voice or his tactical insight.

_Overlord of Conflict _had been unleashed as part of the Legio Damnosus' contingent in the rebel forces that had come to Travos. It had already slain half a dozen loyalists across the planet, and was now marching toward one of the few forges that remained under loyalist control. Every step of the behemot shook the ground as it trampled entire blocs of habitation beneath its foot. Behind it came the army of the Dark Mechanicum : thousands of infantry, dozens of tanks and other war machines, and a company of Iron Warriors. Entire worlds had been brought to heel with such forces during the Great Crusade.

The Titan's horns were blaring as it advanced, screaming its name and deeds in a malformed binaric that crept into the augmented troops like a plague. Their magos had managed to shield them from the viruses and scrap-code every shout of the renegades carried, but it still pained them to listed to them. Even those lowly menials of the Mechanicum whose augmentation was not sufficient to understand the booming declaration could feel the foulness of the shrieks, for they were tainted by forces from beyond the realms of Mankind. They could feel the scorn and madness that infused the rebel God-Machine, its eagerness to kill and destroy. Since the opening of the war, many have taken their own lives, driven to despair and insanity by the overwhelming sense of insignificance and utter evil the renegade Titans emanate.

But the defying call of the Warlord did not go unanswered. One of the loyalist Titans, who had survived the battle thus far, roared in answer. Its name was _Dominion of Mars_, and it was as old as the abomination that dared to think it could roam its home with impunity. Around it were hundreds of loyal skitarii, preparing to support the God-Machine in its duel against its rival. Since the age of the first Titans, raised centuries ago in an Age that was now only spoken of in fearful whispers, one of the God-Machines' weakness had been known : infantry. For all the power of the Titans, for all the crushing superiority they enjoyed over common soldiers, they could still be overwhelmed by a tide of soldiers motivated enough to brave the fire of their guns in order to reach their feet and climb inside the engine of war. Such things had happened time and again since the founding of the Collegia Titanica, and it was standard procedure for Titans to go to battle with the support of massive battalions of infantry and heavy vehicles.

Such alliances were always strained, for while the skitarii of the Mechanicum worshipped the Titans as the greatest incarnation of the Machine-God, the overinflated ego of princeps rarely took well to having to accommodate beings who, from their point of view, were little different from ants. They were achieved and maintained by the efforts of the youngest members of the Legio Titanica, still not wholly integrated to the haughty mindset of their elders. At least, that was the case in loyal Legios : those who had sided with Horus had found amongst their rewards that they no longer needed to pamper these lesser beings, and were free to unleash their full might while thousands of brainwashed tech-warriors died at their feet.

So it was that as the two Warlords marched toward one another, the hordes at their side rushed to clash with each other. The first volley was exchanged while the Titans were still almost a kilometer from each other. _Dominion _fired with the weapon mounted in its right arm, a multi-barrelled missile launcher, while _Overlord_ shot with both of its guns, unleashing a blast of plasma from the left and a devastating energy lance from the right.

The missiles flew toward the form of the traitor Titan, but only half of them found their target. Despite the loyalist moderati's best efforts, the shroud of corrupted data that surrounded _Overlord_ turned astray the guiding systems of the missiles, and they crashed into its escorts instead, slaughtering hundreds of renegade skitarii in burst of fire and shrapnel. The rest exploded on its void-shields instead, failing to pierce them, and the corrupted Titan's booming horns sounded once again, carrying what could only be thought of as laughter.

_Overlord_'s own attack were more successful. The plasma ball hit _Dominion _right in the middle, and for the blink of an eye it overloaded its shield generator. In that instant, the energy lance bit deeply into the metal plates that covered the loyalist Titan's right leg, nearly cutting it off.

Such a shot shouldn't have been possible. Plasma cannons were not precise weapons in any way, and reaching _Dominion _should have taken at least several minutes of complex calculations and careful aiming. But _Overlord_'s cogitators had been blessed by the teachings of Lorgar, Horus and Kelbor-Hal, and were joined with the brains of those who had once been its crew.

_Dominion _screamed in pain and anger, and barely managed to stay standing, its princeps transferring most of its weight on its left leg. Still, it could no longer move, not without risking collapsing on the ground and crushing its allies under its mass.

_Overlord_'s laughter sounded again, and this time it was followed by a vox transmission. Despite the corruption dripping from every single bit of data the traitor Titan was emitting, its message still found its way through every vox in a three kilometers radius, forcing all in the vicinity to hear its words, spoken with the voice of its enthralled princeps :

_**'I am Overlord ! I am Ruler ! I … am … Death !'**_

The still-mobile Titan began to advance toward the paralysed form of its enemy, still screaming its madness across every channel :

_**'I am the Union of Flesh and Metal, the perfect Scion of the Machine ! I am the Incarnation of Destruction, the Principle of Ruin ! I am your ruin, pathetic slave of the False Omnissiah !'**_

The rivalry between the Legio Damnosus and the Legio Legate was old, and _Overlord _had been here when it had been birthed. Competition between the Legio was something of a tradition in the Collegia, but the two Legios at war on Travos had deeper grudges to settle. Long ago, before even the Great Crusade, their forge-worlds had almost waged war against each other. This was a part of their past they had not shared with the rest of the Imperium, but both sides had waited for the opportunity to avenge the debt of blood owed – though the exact details of it had long been lost to time, and _Overlord_ cared little for them, even if it had been present on the very fields where the forebears of both Legio's princeps had challenged each other.

_Overlord _stopped its advance three hundred meters away from its prey. _Dominion _tried to turn to face its enemy, but its leg couldn't bear it. The loyal Titan was at the mercy of the traitor, unable to bring its weapon in range. Like a feline toying with its victim, _Overlord _was taking its time. And, in a truly vicious manner that owed much to the forbidden lore that had been used in its remaking, when it finally went for the kill, it did so with the most cruel weapon in its considerable arsenal. It opened a special hatch located beneath its pilot station, making it look as if it was opening its mouth wide, and activated the device bound within by cables of adamantium and warding circles drawn in blood.

The forbidden weapon tore through the veil of reality, and a flow of Warp energy was unleashed upon _Dominion_. It passed through its shields as if they weren't there – for only a Geller Field could preserve from the Empyrean – and streamed across the loyalist Titan's own pilot room, spreading death and agony as the things of the beyond clawed and gnawed at mortal flesh and souls. It only lasted for a fraction of a second, but it was enough. Without its princeps and moderatis to help it process what was happening to it, _Dominion _fell.

* * *

><p>Moderati Kera struggled to free himself from the restraints that bound him to his station. He failed, his arms too weak, and tried to take in his surroundings. All around him, he could hear the sound of the <em>Dominion <em>dying, its power leaking from a thousand breaches in its armor. The command deck itself was a scene out of an slaughterhouse. The attack, whatever it had been, had torn part the flesh of most of the crew, and the preservation pod of the princeps was occluded with blood, thankfully masking the remains of the man Kera had come to respect if not like.

Kera coughed, and blood spilled from his mouth. His augmented vision blurred for a moment, before stabilizing and allowing a report from his augmentics to scroll down his retinal display. Somehow he had survived, but his internal organs had been shred to pieces. It was a wonder that he was alive, one that owed much to his enhanced body, but he believed, as shock began to fade, that there was more to it. It went against everything he had ever been taught, against everything he had ever believed, yet the moderati couldn't shake the thought that his survival had been deliberate. Not by mercy, but to prolong his pain. It made no sense … but then again, nothing that the rebels had done since coming to Travos had made sense.

No matter the reason he was alive, though, that wouldn't last. Internal bleeding was already causing his remaining flesh to shut down, and in only a few more minutes he would die. He hoped that would happen before the renegades' infantry tore its way through the _Dominion_'s shattered armor plates and into the pilot deck. He could already hearing them, cutting through heavily reinforced metal like worms on a fallen predator. Kera had seen picts of what the traitors did to those they captured, and been just as horrified when he had first learned that they raised the Titans they slew to make them fight on their side. It broke his heart to know that the noble Warlord he had fought within for so long would soon suffer the same dishonor, but there was nothing he could do …

Something caught his attention, a movement on the plasti-glass windows at the front of the Titan's head, less than ten meters away. One of the enemy skitarii had managed to reach the one weak spot in the Warlord's structure – not that it was much of a weak spot when the energy shields and weapons were active. Soon, it would pierce through the barrier, and Kera would be at its mercy. A faint sense of horror spread in the moderati's broken body as, for the first time, he beheld one of the Dark Mechanicum soldiers with his own eyes rather than the _Dominion_'s own sensory array.

He saw at once that to call the creature a skitarii was a mistake. Skitarii were, as a rule, ugly things, with augmentics that were crude by Mechanicum standards, though some of them were carefully crafted by some of the most expert magos to act as leaders and champions of their kin. They were killers, enslaved to their betters and following their own base version of the Omnissiah. Still, there was dignity in them, a purity of form and purpose brought into existence by the holy union of flesh and machine in service of the cause of war.

The thing that was even now looking through the plasti-glass and at Kera, something like hunger plain on its hideous features when it saw that someone was still alive, had nothing of that purity. It was a nightmare made reality by the forbidden science of madmen. Black veins ran alongside cables on its bare muscles, and plates of bones covered its most vulnerable parts. Its eyes were not augmetics : they were real eyes of flesh, dozens of them, on its face and spread across the rest of its body, looking in every direction at once. Mouths opened on its arms and legs, exposing rows of iron teeth that clasped hungrily in the air. Blood, oil and other, less wholesome liquids dripped from it.

What could be seen with bare eyes was already more than enough to deem this creature an heresy of the highest order, a blasphemy against the teachings of the True Omnissiah. In Kera's augmented vision, though, the true abomination of the creature was revealed. Clouds of self-aware data clung to it, malicious intelligences that even now tried to break into Kera's own augmetics. These techno-spirits were flickering in and out of existence, and formed patterns between them that made Kera sick. Scrap-code and malevolent algorithms, resurrected from ancient, forbidden vaults of the Dark Age of Technology creations that forsook logic and reason and embraced chaotic and random impulses in order to channel the energies of the Warp into realspace. This was madness manifest corruption incarnate coursing through the hallowed circuits of the Machine.

Then Kera saw, far beyond the skitarii, something else. Something that gave him pause. The Traitor Titan, the blasphemous perversion of all the Mechanicum had ever held true, was priming its weapons, and aiming them straight at the fallen form of the _Dominion_.

The twisted skitarii felt the incoming threat, either thanks to the sound of the Warlord preparing to fire or through some other sense. It turned back to face the incarnation of war and madness, its jaw slack, frozen in the face of such unanticipated betrayal.

The light gathered inside _Overlord_'s plasma cannon, and Kera smiled. Whatever the reason behind the traitor's action, whatever insanity had caused this unexplainable decision to fire upon an already defeated foe even though it was crawling with the renegade's own allies, it did not matter. At least _Dominion of Mars _would be spared the atrocity of being used against the true servants of the Omnissiah.

The plasma cannon opened fire, and there was a flash of light, followed by a moment of absolute nothingness. Then, slowly, the being that had once been Kera Meredi recovered consciousness. Its first thought was horror, for it was surrounded by Hell. Its first instinct was to scream, but it had no mouth. Unable to do anything to protect itself, the soul of the dead moderati was consumed by the daemons that had flocked to Travos, drawn to the forge-world by the offering of pain and blood given by rebels and loyalists alike.

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><p>Princeps Lotard Alexian roared his delight as he wrenched control back from <em>Overlord'<em>s machine-spirit. His emotions translated through the Manifold, and the Warlord's horns sounded once more, though this time without carrying any threat beyond their sheer decibel volume. Long had he waited for this moment, the instant when the Titan's attention would be entirely directed on the joy of the kill and no longer on the battle raging inside. He had left himself been used, allowed _Overlord_ to wield him like a pawn. But no more.

The moment _Overlord _had fell the enemy Warlord, Lotard had seized the opportunity. He had risen from the depths of code and the digital shadows where he had laid in wait, and claimed dominance back from _Overlord_. The beast had fought back, of course, roaring its defiance and majesty at the insignificant worm who dared to pretend to be its master. But Lotard was a princeps : from his very infancy, when he had been selected by the Legio recruiters as a potential Titan lord, he had been raised to impose his will upon the God-Machines he would one day pilot.

It was too late for his comrades – they were too far gone within the Warlord's own consciousness. They couldn't be restored. Even Lotard, for all his pride and stubbornness, knew that the only reason he had been able to endure had been that the Titan had needed him. The God-Machine simply couldn't function without the help of a human mind, even if it could and had reduced it to slavery.

But now, Lotard had returned from the brink of oblivion, and he was once more the Princeps of _Overlord of Conflict_. He did not feel rancor for what he had been through, nor did he mourn the fate of his comrades. Theirs was the ultimate union with the machine, and never had they been promised such an union would be painless. Still, a man had his pride, and Lotard would not allow himself to be enslaved to anyone, not even an incarnation of the Omnissiah such as the _Overlord_'s machine-spirit.

As Lotard revelled in his reclaimed freedom, his attention was drawn to another part of the Manifold. He was being hailed by the rest of the invading force. Hundreds of alarmed messages, demanding him to explain what he had just done, scrolled down. With a mental frown, the princeps focused and looked around with the Titan's eyes, trying to make sense of where he was and what was happening.

His plasma cannon – _Overlord_'s plasma cannon, he corrected himself – was still hot, and aimed toward the fuming crater that had been occupied by a rival Titan just moment earlier. In the moment between Lotard's rise and his actual seizing of control, the Warlord had opened fire on the loyalist God-Machine, out of sheer spite and defiance. The defeated foe had vanished in a colossal explosion when it had been shot again, its reactor exploding under the attack. He could see allied skitarii swarming around the crater, running in all directions like ants whose hive had been kicked by a giant. Thousands of them must have perished in the explosion, and in the eyes of the invading force's commanders, it was Lotard who had killed them.

As he opened the first vox-channel, preparing himself to explain as best he could to the Iron Warrior Warsmith Maxerrus, Lotard swore he heard _Overlord _laugh at him from the depths of the Manifold.


	4. Sides

AN : And as I said in the last chapter of the Forsaken Sons, here is a new short story. This one was inspired by a suggestion of Alpha70 : telling a story where the Imperium is an unstoppable invader.

This chapter is written using the Sandy Mitchell approach. To those of you who haven't read the Ciaphas Cain novels, it means that I have used a lot of footnotes, all of which are at the end of the chapter. So I recommend you to open this story in two separate tabs and scroll all down with the second one, so that you don't have to scroll up and down all the time. This should be the only chapter of this fic with this feature.

As always, I thanks those who have given this story reviews. If you have any idea for another story, tell me in yours for this one ! Now, I return to the Forsaken Sons. I have a lot of ideas (already six different ideas for as many chapters, in fact), but it will take a while to choose the next one and give it form.

Zahariel out.

I do not own the Warhammer 40000 universe nor any of its characters. They belong to Games Workshop.

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><p>Access to this file is reserved to Ordo personnel with a Zeta-level and above clearance only. Unauthorized consultation will result in mind-wiping andor execution.

Thought for the day : _'Knowledge is power. Guard it well.'_

Preamble :

_In my many decades of service as an agent of the God-Emperor's will, I have seen many men and women fall to the lure and snares of Chaos. On an individual scale, the reasons that led them to their damnation may seem unique, but as all my colleagues will know, there are patterns in such things. It is as if the Ruinous Powers relish in seeing the same tragedies unfold again and again. _

_Our Ordo cares little about the reason of such falls, as it our task to punish the crime and not to prevent it (that task belongs to the Ecclesiarchy). Yet in the case of heresies that engulf whole worlds, I believe it is wise for us to know how they appear and spread, so that we may avoid repeating the mistakes of the past. This is why I have sent this file to the Ordos for safe-keeping and consultation for those of my fellows Inquisitors with the required wisdom, despite its utterly heretical contents._

_I found this document while purging a relatively minor cult of the Dark Powers, stopping them as they were preparing to summon a creature from the Warp. After ordering the contents transcribed, I incinerated the servitors responsible, destroyed the original – a foul thing if there ever was – and began to study the test itself. Of course, I used all possible precautions to avoid contamination while doing so, but as I have found, the corrupting potential of this particular text lies not in any sorcerous ability but in the deception woven in its every word._

_I have added my own observations to it, so that my colleagues will not have to do the same tedious work of research I had to. You who read this, steel your heart against the lies of the Arch-Enemy, and let your faith in the God-Emperor be the shield of your soul._

Inquisitor Markus Terkarch, Ordo Hereticus.

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><p>For hundreds of years, Zacheren, our world, had been in peace. It had remained isolated, forgotten by those who had once claimed to be its masters (1). The knowledge that we had once been part of a greater whole had, for us people of the planet, quickly faded into legend. Despite archives of contact with the so-called 'Imperium of Man' spanning several millennia, Humanity already doubted that this time had ever been. Like the myths of distant Terra, such tales were seen as no more than stories told by old men already half-senile.<p>

In our ignorance, though, we prospered. The world was fertile and rich, and now that we no longer had to focus on harvesting kilotons of food for the outsiders, culture and civilization expanded. Vast cities were built from the stone of the mountains, and the population grew. Instead of worshipping a distant divinity sitting on a throne on a world none of them would ever see, the people put their faith in each other (2). As kingdoms rose from the settlements that had been allowed to exist, tensions grew, but peace was maintained. The tales of the prior epoch, which spoke of endless wars that were being fought across the stars, were enough to quell any such thing from happening on Zacheren.

Then the Imperium returned, and war came back with it. From the stars came a single ship, carrying word from the old empire as well as demands. A man descended from it, fat with arrogance and a life of privilegied comfort, and proclaimed himself master of the world (3). He ordered a grand palace be built for him, and that our people give what they had to him and to the Imperium. We refused, and rejected the self-proclaimed tyrant. We didn't kill him then, nor did we harm him in any way. Yet the so-called 'Governor' repaied that clemency by calling the fury of the Imperium on those people he had pretended to rule.

Thousands of soldiers came to force the population to submit – tortured souls enslaved to the will of their overseers by chemicals and explosive collars, driven to madness by the poisons coursing through their blood (4). Horrified, we fought back, refusing to bow to a tyranny that would do such things to its own children. Armies were raised, equiped with the few relics of museums that were still functionnal and what weapons they could gather, and went to war with all the strength and courage of those who defend their home. With great losses, they managed to defeat the horde sent by the Imperium, but it was only the beginning of Zacheren's trials. The cruel overlords of the Imperium could not allow our defiance of their unlawful authority, lest their weakness be revealed to the rest of their oppressed subjects, who would then raise against them in turn (5).

More troops were sent : masked soldiers and engines of war that rained death from afar (6). Unlike the savage monsters previously fought, these were disciplined warriors, and the inexperienced defenders could not stop their advance. City after city fell, until salvation came from the same stars that had brought doom. Warriors, giant in stature and clad in crimson armor, descended from the skies like the angels of legends and laid waste to the invaders (7).

The angels told us that the forces of tyranny would return, and under their guidance we prepared to fight to the last. There was little hope of victory, but the angels taught us that this shouldn't deter us. By our defiance of the False Emperor and the tyrants who oppressed Mankind in his name, we would live forever.

As we had been warned, the Imperium returned, having marshalled yet a greater force of enslaved soldiers and corrupt generals. They found us prepared, however. At the angels' direction, great bastions had been built in which we massed our resources and our people, preparing for the sieges that would inevitably follow. In the skies, the angels and their celestial allies fought against the leviathans of the False Emperor's fleets. Despite their best efforts, and the destruction of many ships, eventually some of the enemy troops made planetfall, and the last war for Zacheren began. For years and years it raged on, and the number of the defenders decreased, slowly crushed by the blunt and merciless press of Imperial tyranny.

In despair, we turned to the angels, begging them to grant us more support in our war for freedom. Reluctantly (8), they agreed, byt warned us that there would be a price to their aid, for the lords they served were bound by ancient laws. There would be consequences, and sacrifices would have to be made. But at this point, with several bastions already fallen to the enemy and tales circulating of the undiscriminate slaughter committed there upon the civilians (9), we had nothing to lose.

The angels revealed to us the rituals by which the children of the true gods themselves could be called upon, and the most devout amongst us willingly gave their lives to fuel them. The barrier between the heavens and the mundane reality was torn in a dozen places across the world, and the divine hosts manifested. With their aid, the tide of war was turned for a time. The scions of the War God, enraged by the honorless massacre of innocents, fought agaisnt the invaders with blades of vengeance and fury. The agents of the Prince of Hope sowed confusion in the unimaginative minds of their commanders, punishing them for their blind obediance to sterile tyranny. The maidens of the Lord of Delight showed the slaves of the False Emperor the pleasures they had been denied all their lives, turning thousands to the side of freedom. The children of the Father of All blessed our warriors with strength and endurance, while the weakness of the invaders' souls was reflected by the plagues that spread through their ranks (10).

It was at that time that the first of us began to exhibit the signs of the true gods' favor. The flesh of those who had proved their valor was reshaped to better suit the truth of their souls (22), and the angels praised them for their devotion. The Changed Ones and the Neverborn fought back to back with the angels on the fields of Zacheren, and for a time it seemed that the Imperium would have no choice but to retreat. But the wrath of tyrants can be terrible indeed, and they care naught for the lives of their servants they have to sacrifice so long as ultimate victory is theirs. So it was that, in their fury at seeing their hunger for domination thwarted, the lords of the Imperium called upon their deadliest tools.

Twisted parodies of the noble angels, more beasts than men (12), came alongside a new wave of sacrificial victims for the pyres of war. For all their monstrosity, though, these warriors in grey were powerful, and slew many of the angels in combat, forcing them to abandon their flesh and return to the gods. Faced once more with annihilation, we offered the gods more and more of ourselves, giving them footholds in this universe so that they might help us fight the forces of oppression. The best of our warriors relinquished their flesh to the Dwellers of the Great Ocean, and our greatest scholars and priests studied the teachings of the angels to bring forth the gods' miracles (13). With them, we managed to hold, until it was revealed that, in one last, petty and bitter decision, the Imperium had decided to destroy the planet entirely. A conclave of the dreadful thought-police that binds the souls of Mankind as much as its tyrants bind their freedom had gathered, and such had been its self-righteous verdict. If they couldn't have Zacheren, then no one would.

The spirits all sung the same word, over and over : Exterminatus. Dark ships that had spent their entire existence murdering worlds were sailing through the ether, drawing ever closer. How could any sane soul blame us for resisting a tyranny that would use such abominable weapons ? What benevolent kingdom could possibly enforce its rule with the threat of the rebelling planets' destruction ? At the same time as we lamented over our fate, we knew that our resistance was just, that it was the only possible way that allowed us to remain humans and not slaves.

Yet there were some who refused to accept this destiny, who sought to save our world and our people by the use of the greatest sorcery. With the advice of one of the last angels, they called upon the greatest children of the gods, and begged for their aid. Moved by their pleas, the spirits told them of a way to save Zacheren. If a great ritual was conducted, the gods would drag Zacheren into their domain, forever protected from the Imperium's co-called 'retribution'. Should they succeed, the spirits promised to reward the angell who led the cabal for the salvation of so many souls : they would elevate him to their own ranks, one of the gods' exalted children rather than their blessed agent (15). The price in blood would be huge, for only life can buy life, as it is the most sacred of things that cannot be traded for anyghing else, no matter the views of the lords of Terra. In the last standing bastion, where millions had fled as the war went on, preparations were made in haste. Thousands gave their life willingly, while others had to be forced to sacrifice themselves for the good of the majority.

But somehow, the cursed Imperials must have felt we were about to escape them (16), and they sent one last attack to disturb the ritual before it could be completed. By fell malefices, a group of inhuman monsters appeared in the ritual chamber, wearing armor drenched in the blood of thousands of innocents and wielding weapons forged with the souls of the true blessed. The faithful fell upon them in a great tide, but the intruders were too strong, their power increased by blasphemies and denial of self that had left nothing of the men they had once been (17). The silver warriors appreached from the leader of the angels, and his brothers valiantly laid down their lives to protect him long enough to complete the ritual. But it was in vain, for the ritual had already been perturbed beyond recuperation by the monstrous killers' presence. Already the powers that had been gathered were escaping the control of the cabal. Reality itself was torn apart, and all of us who still lived felt Zacheren itself die. Yet even in that moment of failure, the Great Gods showed mercy. They saved the last surviving angels, bringing them and the bodies of their fallen brothers back to their celestial realm. A few of us, chosen by Their unfathomable wisdom, were similarly spared.

I was among them, and saw a world of many wonders, filled with monuments to the glory of the Pantheon. Great towers rose too high for the eye to see, temples the size of mountains were filled with choirs endlessly singing the praises of the gods. The skies above were reflections of Their glory, and I had to force myself to look away, tears of regret rolling down my cheeks as I did so, lest I was consumed by such beauty.

There were thousands and thousands of angels there (18), leading the prayers of billions and billions of faithful souls. I saw lines of men and women stretching out from horizon to horizon, waiting to be offered to the Gods so that they may be united. Even from a great distance I could hear their cries of joy at being blessed thusly, and me and the other survivors of Zacheren fell on our knees and began to pay hommage. It was then that the angels approached us, and told us that even if our world had fallen in the endless war against the False Emperor, we could still be of use.

They took my eyes, so that I would never see anything else than the glory of this kingdom. They took my ears, so that I may never listen to anything but the praise of the gods. They took the memory of my name, that I may be no one else than the servant of the gods. Then they gave me ink and parchment (19) and told me in my mind to write the tale of Zacheren. This is this tale : how a people living in peace were forced to war by the Imperium of Man, and how the attempts of tyrants to destroy then instead led them to illumination. We died and our world was destroyed, but we died free and that is all one can ever wish for. May the tale of our death spread in the domain of the False Emperor, and reveal the truth of his tyranny to the slaves, so that they in turn rise against the oppressors (20).

For the freedom of Man and the glory of Chaos.

* * *

><p>(1) Zacheren was lost to the Imperium due to a misfiled report in the Administratum, somewhere near the end of the fortieth millenium. While this is hardly an uncommon occurrence in a bureaucracy this size, in this case the consequences were grave and far-reaching. Where the responsible not of the Administratum, and thus already living one of the most miserable existences possible in the galaxy, no doubt retribution would have been terrible.<p>

(2) Speculation has it that the origins of that foolish philosophy were surviving texts from Terra's antiquity. How our ancestors ever survived in this galaxy with such naive ideas, we will never know.

(3) Barthelemy von Cezare, the scion of some insignificant and inbreed Terran bloodline. His assignment as Governor of Zacheren was bought by his parents when the planet's existence was rediscovered, but all their money couldn't save him from his execution for gross incompetence later.

(4) The 1034th Penal Legion. Like many such regiments, the psychopaths and criminals that made up its ranks were kept under control by drastic but necessary means, and injected with enough stims to turn the rabble into an effective fighting force.

(5) As much as it pains me to admit it, the heretic is right here. News of Zacheren's rebellion had spread across the sector by that point, and if it wasn't crushed, it would doubtlessly have inspired other uprisings.

(6) This time, a proper regiment was sent, in the hope that the rebellion could be crushed quickly and with as little loss of life and resources as possible. The 425th Calistans were sent, as they had already experience in forcing misguided worlds into the fold of the Imperium.

(7) From the picts taken by the 425th and the testimony of the survivors before they were purged, those were Traitor Marines from the infamous Word Bearers Legion. The following corruption of Zacheren is something of a specialty for this particular breed of abominations, and they have long been enemies of my Ordo (after bringing us to work together with colleagues of the Ordo Malleus). It was probably at this moment that the planet was damned.

(8) I really, really doubt that. Either the author is lying, or the traitors are better actors than most loyal Astartes – which is probably how they were able to hid their betrayal from the God-Emperor until their forces were ready.

(9) Since the taint of Chaos was proved beyond doubt by the Word Bearers' presence, it had been decided to purge the world's population entirely. It is likely the traitors knew their presence would cause this, and took advantage of our logical reaction.

(10) My colleagues will easily recognize here the four major Chaos Gods, behind the lofty names employed. Since the Word Bearers aren't aligned with any of them, instead blindly worshipping all of them equally, the taint of Zacheren was as varied as it proved murderous when the hordes of daemons reached the Imperial forces.

(11) The ironic truth of that statement appears to be lost on the author.

(12) A company of the Space Wolves Chapter. For all the tension that has existed between the sons of Fenris and the Holy Ordos at times, their records in this war were exemplary, no matter what the end result was.

(13) The daemonhosts and sorcerers of Zacheren earned a terrible reputation during the war. Several were taken by other warbands, and still defy the Emperor's judgment to this day. And, according to rumor, a few Radical Inquisitors have captured some as well, though I refuse to even ponder what their motives may be.

(14) The decision of Exterminatus was taken by a group of six Inquisitors who had attached themselves to the war. At this point, they judged, the world was beyond redemption, and too deeply corrupt to be colonized again once its current population was purged. So it was decided to destroy the planet in the most complete fashion, using cyclonic torpedoes to tear it apart entirely.

(15) The individual Word Bearer was known to the Imperial forces as the Dark Apostle Merendes. Seeing that he was about to lose the war (or perhaps seizing the moment he had been waiting for all this time), the Arch-Traitor planned to turn Zacheren into a daemon world, hoping to be elevated to daemonhood in return. While the fickle and treacherous nature of Chaos makes it impossible to know whether or not it would have succeeded, there were already millions of dead on the world, and billions of souls damned to Chaos.

(16) The screams of every psyker and astropath in the system were an obvious enough clue.

(17) The author displays here a rather worrying insight into the nature of the Grey Knights. As secrecy is one of the 666th Chapter's best weapons, this alone would justify this file's clearance requirements.

(18) This was probably Sicarius, the daemon world in the Eye of Terror where the cursed Seventeenth has made its lair after being cast out from the Emperor's light. Knowledge about this most unholy place is scarce (something we can all be thankful for, if this brief description is anything to go by).

(19) Actually, if the original text I found was indeed written by the author's own hands, what they gave him was blood and skin. Both probably came from the other 'survivors'.

(20) Which is how it was being used when I found it. I pray to the God-Emperor that this was the only copy, for the mind of Man is easily deceived and brought into darkness by the lies of Chaos.


End file.
